


(When I call Your Name, its) Like a Prayer

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [18]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, Outdoor Sex, PWP, elves are weird about hair, elves like trees, so are Dwarves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 18:18:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1697924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a little bit of love-in-the-springtime, for Legolas and Gimli. Takes place after Dance me to the Future, ie, sometime in the spring, outside Minas Tirith, about a year post-ring-war - but only days into their acknowledged relationship as lovers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(When I call Your Name, its) Like a Prayer

**Author's Note:**

> title adapted from a song by Madonna.

Oh Yavanna, I have never praised you enough. Never have I seen the beauty of your care for the flowers and plants of this earth so clear as I do now. Never. I feel – I feel as though my eyes are new-made, as though the colours I see are clearer, brighter, sharper. Stronger. As though the scents are more powerful, intoxicating. The sounds, the wind in the leaves, the faint song of the trees, more beautiful than ever before in all the years I have listened. 

This glade – sense tells me this cannot be the most beautiful woodland I have ever been in – but it seems so. These flowers, oh their colours, never have I seen such blue, such white, so perfect, so intense. The green of the leaves is – almost too much. The scents, with every breath I take they seem to fill me, to drive me higher. And if the scent of the flowers, of the green things growing, of the earth, is mingled with this new scent, this scent which makes all things well, this scent which tells me the world is aright, what matters it, that this scent is not one I ever thought to love, that this is one I used to loathe, to disparage, to wonder why it was created, this scent of – of pipeweed. 

I – never – never in all my years – in all the springs I have lived – never – have I felt so. As though the sun is risen in my life, as though I could reach out my hands and touch the golden shimmer I see in the air. As though I too were blossoming, as though I were newly alive. 

The song, oh the song of these trees, I have never heard it so clear, never understood it so well as they praise their creator, as they glory in being alive, as they feel the sap rising in the spring, their leaves unfurling, spreading in the sunshine, revelling in the warmth. I – I seem to hear music everywhere – more than ever before – more – more tuneful – more joyous – I have not the words – it – it is like bells, like – I do not know. It is the music of – of a joyful heart, I suppose. Almost, I imagine I can see the notes in the air, clustering, dancing, spinning, their colours like those of butterflies, shimmering golden-edged. 

I – I do not know how to describe my own feelings. I think – I think I could burst with this – I think – I think I am on fire – I am as though drunk – I am – I am alive at last. It feels – as though I have woken from a long sleep – as though – as though I am newly created – as though I am the elf I was always meant to be, and always knew I never was – as though – at last – I am skilled, beautiful, needed, wanted – as though I have a purpose – as though, for the first time in my life – I matter to someone. And yet – somehow – I can say this, and yet feel no sorrow for all the wasted years, all the loneliness, the pain – it is as though I have forgotten – as though that was not me – a tale, told long ago – because I – I am beyond the reach of any. I am safe, I am home, I am where I always needed to be.

Everything I see seems brighter, more beautiful, more – more wonderful than ever before.

Just as every night, the stars seem brighter, less cold.

Just as every taste, every touch, every sensation is increased, is made better, more powerful now.

Just as every feeling is more. More hope, more joy, more happiness. 

I will not think of the risk. I will not think that were things to – to change – to go wrong – those feelings – they would be more also. More fear. More pain. More grief.

I will not think of that.

I will lie here, enjoying the now.

I am an elf. My heart rules me. I need not listen to my head.

What good would it do now my fate is chosen?

 

 

“What are you thinking, inscrutable bloody elf?” he asks, poking me with the toe of his boot, and I realise I have been lying here, lost in thoughts, for almost the time it takes him to smoke a pipe. I smile,  
“I was wondering when I ceased to hate the smell of pipeweed,” I say, not entirely untruthfully, for that thought was – almost – where I started from.

He seems to take me seriously, and thinks,  
“Well, I can remember you bloody complaining outside Isengard. But – now you say it, not since then,” he puts the pipe down, and grins, smugly, “and you certainly don’t dislike the taste. Come here and be kissed again, my daft sodding elf.”

I wriggle, prettily I hope, and raise my brow,  
“Or you could come here and kiss me?”

He prods me with his foot once more,  
“But, my dear elf, you are in the middle of some – I don’t know what – bloody flowers. And you will be cross if I crush them. But doubtless one so skilled in elvish woodcraft can avoid any such hurt.”

I sigh,  
“Bluebells, meleth, bluebells, hardly an uncommon flower. I would think even dwarves know them,” and as he makes some indescribable noise of dismissal, I roll, and crawl over to him, draping myself over his body, my legs between his, to bring my face to his.

He strokes my ear, and whispers,  
“Oh, I know them. But I like watching you move far, far more than you like watching me.”

And as my face begins to change, ready to pout at his teasing, he stops my mouth with a kiss. I forget whatever it was I was cross over. I forget everything. He holds me, one arm round my shoulders, one hand on my ear, his mouth on mine, his tongue exploring me, wakening me again, and I – I feel all else leave my head. Nothing matters but this. Nothing but that he loves me. I press myself to him, I wriggle, and feel his response hard against me. I hear myself moan, desperate again, needing him again, and my eyes close as I hold his head to me by his hair.

His hand moves from my shoulder, and slips under my tunic, he pulls back from me to say,  
“I don’t think this is really necessary. Such a warm spring day, such a pretty elf. So close to me. You don’t need this do you?”

And all I can do is whimper agreement and move to help him take it off. 

“Lovely,” he says, “oh my Legolas, you are lovely.”

I smile up at him, and – I find I am truly beginning to believe his words.

“What would you have?” he asks, but I do not know, so I shrug, happy with whatever he will suggest. I suppose I may, one day, learn to ask, to know what it is I want, but – not yet. He strokes my hair, “come unbound?” he asks, “I would like to see you here, in this glade, though it is not a proper wood for my elf, I would like to see you here with your hair down, among the flowers.”

I look up at him, “I am no Luthien, to dance for you, enchant you – “ I begin, but he reaches out and stops my mouth, 

“No. She was a girl. I know that. Dark-haired. Like to the queen. What would l want with her? I love morning, not evening. Now you say it though,” he smiles again, “I would not object to watching you dance again. Here. For me.”

Oh. 

I had not thought of that.

Again?

I – I do not really understand. I thought – I thought courting dances were – well – for courting. In front of others.

Part of me wonders if I dance – wrong – somehow. 

Or – if dwarves are just – different in this way too.

He – he seems to like me to dance. But – only for him.

I do not really understand.

But – if it is what he wants.

I dance.

I hear the music of the trees in my head, I hear my song of my love for him, I voice it, I dance. I dance in the way he likes, here in this glade, my hair unbound, barefoot, bare-chested. 

I am an elf, it would not bother me to strip for him, to dance as he likes me to dance in our room – but – he is a dwarf. He does not think that right.

I have no idea why dwarves are so strange.

It is not as though I would be cold.

I dance for him, and his pleasure is clear in his eyes, in the way he looks at me. 

“Want you,” he says, and even his voice is changed by desire. I do this to him. I. 

Truly, I am blessed.

I look at him.

I stop dancing.

He – he is – he has – unlaced himself. He – he is – touching – himself. I – I have not words for this. I did not know he might do this in front of me. I – I thought – I supposed – this was something shameful – never would I have thought – that this could be – that he would do this looking at me. I must look shocked, for he says,  
“Oh my love, come here then. If you don’t want me to do this, come and do it for me. I want you. Now. You look so fucking good when you dance.”

I feel myself colour, my ears must be red from the heat I can feel. 

“I – I – I did not – I – why are you – “and I remember that once, once I thought of myself as intelligent. Once I thought I had skill with words. I do not sound it today, or any day or night in these new lessons. I approach him, and he reaches with one hand and takes my wrist, his grip encircling me, as his other hand is still – busy. He pulls me down to him, and I kneel facing him, watching him, knowing myself – what was the word – aroused by the sight, by knowing it is my dancing that has him like this. He holds me captive, and says,  
“So, are you really going to tell me you have not done this, when you thought of – me?”

And now, not just my ears, but my face is burning – how can he ask this so casually – as I nod, silently, waiting for him to tell me what to do. 

“Yes,” he says, “and how I should like to see that, one day. But now – now – what would you? Touch me? Or – oh my elf – my Legolas – would you rather watch?”

I – I find I know exactly what I want. How to ask, though? I bite my lip, nervous, and why am I? It is not a request he has previously had any hesitation over granting.

Well, it is not something I have had to ask before. I have not asked much, these heady days. I have let him guide me, lead me, teach me. 

But – suddenly – I begin to know, my body knows, even though I have not the words.

“What?” he asks, slowing his hand, “you want something, I know. I will always know, my love. So tell me. Please. I cannot always guess what you need.”

I suppose not. But – I find this difficult. I wish – I wish elves had words for such things. I wish I knew them. I wish – I wish I knew how to ask him for such words.

He knows, how he knows me, how he understands, and he moves his hand from my wrist to my ear, giving comfort, stroking, promising without words that he will not be shocked, will not cease loving me.

I look at him, where his hand is still moving, and then I look up and meet his eyes, a longing in mine, and – and I lick my lips.

Slowly.

“Oh,” he says, and I thank – whoever I should thank – that he is clever enough to understand me as he holds himself still, and, “very nice. Yes. I would like that. If that is what you want, then, yes, use your mouth, oh my love, such skill you have already.”

And his hand on my ear draws my head down to his lap, but something he has said has made me think, and I use the moment I cannot see his face to say,  
“I – I would do this better for you. Tell me. Please. I love you so. I – I would please you.” I do not say, I would wish to be better than any other, although it is in my thoughts, for I suppose that is unlikely. His hand strokes my ear again, and then grips my hair, as I take him into my mouth.

And oh, oh I love this. I can taste only him, hear only his breath, see only him, feel only his hand in my hair, smell only the scent of his desire. He surrounds me, he is my world. I lick and suck at him, and oh how good it is – but – I wonder if this is right, if this is pleasing him – with part of my mind, even at this moment, I worry. But – he is breathing so hard, he is gripping me, as he does, his hand so deep in my hair, so tight he pulls, and it feels so good. It must be right – surely I am pleasing him? He is my world, and I – at this moment I know myself to be his, completely.

“I love you,” he says, because he knows I need to hear it, “you please me. There is none better,” Oh my love, I think, you know me too well, but he adds, “can I, let me?” 

I do not know what he is asking, and – I cannot answer anyway – but – I manage a little moan, which he assumes is a ‘yes’ – as it is – and I understand, as he begins to move his hand on himself again. And – oh. 

“That’s good,” he says, “oh so good, just keep – yes. Keep there, further, oh yes.” And his hand grips harder than ever at my hair, holding me in place, moving me, his other hand still moving, he is pushing into me and this time he is controlling the pace, as he has not before – and he – oh, so much, I had not realised how he would want to move – how deep – I had not realised how much he must have held back, been careful of me – but this time – he – he is moving, letting himself – and – and – oh Gimli, I think – oh – please – I – I cannot – it is too much – I – I cannot – I – oh, I can – oh Gimli please – more – yes – oh. Oh. 

And then I am swallowing, and licking at him, and he is stroking my hair, he is laughing with pleasure, as he raises my head and  
“Believe me, ghivashel, you need no instruction. Although,” he pauses, “it seems I am being selfish. What would you have?”

I do not know. I – I do not care. His hands are in my hair, he is smiling, he loves me. Nothing else matters. The ache – for there is an ache – I do want – something – some – relief – matters not. 

I am an elf. I need him to keep his hands in my hair.

He sees this. He pulls me – gently – up to rest against him, almost in his lap, and – I wonder what he is doing, as he fumbles in his pocket. Then I see he has my comb – his to carry now – and – I look at him, as he says,  
“I don’t think you have been entirely honest with me, love.” I flinch, not knowing what he means, but before I can begin to protest my innocence, to beg forgiveness for whatever he thinks I have done, “ssh, I am not cross. It is just that I saw – I did not mean to – but I saw two of your elves combing together. You did not tell me – daft sodding elf, how can I learn such things if you do not tell me – you did not say the words were so important.”

I blush. I did not know how. I thought – I thought it was obvious. I – I thought perhaps dwarves did not care for such words. I am – not good at asking.

I wonder which two.

I did not know any were combmates.

I do not ask. I do not think that is the point.

He pulls himself to sit upright, and I wonder where he wants me, but he knows, of course he does, he sits me between his legs, one knee bent up.

“Lean on me, you are too bloody tall otherwise,” he says, and I realise he has thought about this, as I lean my crossed arms on his knee, my head laid on them, eyes closed. My hair hangs loose down his leg, and – I feel so safe like this, protected by his bulk from the world outside. “There, that’s nice, isn’t it?” and – yes – it is – it is very nice – more than nice – as he begins to sweep my comb through my hair, his hands so gentle, yet – so strong. I have seen those hands fight, wield an axe, move stone, shift a troll to rescue a halfling, I know how much strength there is in them, and to feel this, this tenderness – it is – I have not the words for how I feel. It is so much. 

“You did not tell me,” he begins, “you did not tell me, my daft elf, so how could I know? You said – you said comb you. So I do. I comb you every night. I braid you every morning. I love your hair, I love the feel of it in my hands. I love knowing that none but me may touch it, that you will unbind fully only for me, as I for you. But – you did not say – talk to me – you did not say – sing. You did not ask me so how could I know? I love you so. You have to tell me these things. I am no elf.”

“I – I thought I had,” I say, quietly, ashamed of myself, “I thought – I thought you understood – I thought – I comb you – I sing. I talk – I thought – I thought you just – liked it not.”

He sighs, “Oh my love, when are we going to get it right? You sing all the bloody time. I can’t tell when it matters to you. Not yet. But – I will try. I – can’t sing. Not here. Not like this. But I can talk. Oh love, I could talk to you for hours of how I love you. Is that what you want to hear? That I love you. That I want only to be with you. That sharing my life with you is beyond all I thought to hope for. Yes?” and I make a little sound, I have no words for how this makes me feel to hear him talk of love as he combs me, but “or is that not quite what you want? Do you want to hear how I love your kisses? Your sweet, sweet sounds when I please you? Because oh my elf, I love the way you love me. Yes? You want to hear how I like to fuck you? Over and over? How wonderful your mouth is? Yes? Is that right? Is that – is this – what you need?” and I cling to him, wondering how to say – yes, but – more. But – it seems he has eavesdropped to good purpose. He continues moving the comb, using his hand on my ear and in my hair, but – but now he is falling into the rhythm, now he is speaking just so, “oh my love, my Legolas, feel me combing you. Feel my hands in your hair, know how I love you, oh how I love you, know how I love to have you, how I love your sweet kisses, how I love your cries, your surrender, oh my love, my elf, my Legolas, know how I adore you, how I would please you in every way, how I love you to take me, how I want you, over and over, how I am yours forever, in thrall to you, I cannot live without your love, could not bear to be alone once more, know you are mine, you are safe, always, I promise you, I love you so, you are mine, you are safe now, safe with me, always, Legolas, my Legolas, love of my heart, the one I was born to be with, Legolas, enjoy this comb, let my hands on your ears stroke the cares away, Legolas, relax, let me hold you, soothe you, please my love, let me please you, care for you.....” and he goes on, but I – I think I am – I have not the words for how I feel. It is – all I ever thought combing with one would be – all I ever dreamed those lonely nights – beyond what I ever hoped I could have – and yet – and yet – I know – I know now, there is so much more – and he will give that too. Over and over.

“I love you,” I say, “I – oh please, I love you so.”

“Please what?” he asks, “is this not right? What do you want my love?”

But – I do not know. Again. This is so wonderful – and yet – and yet – I do not want him to stop – but – my body – I am – gasping with need – I cling to him – I – oh Gimli – how – how can this be – how – this is combing – how is it so different when it is his hands? 

“Oh, my pretty elf,” he has seen how it is, “so combing – is not so very different then? Not now you – are in love?”

“No,” I gasp, “it seems – oh Gimli – please – I – I need – oh please – do not – do not tease me.” For I fear he will slip back into those teasing ways – which sometimes – sometimes – I am learning to like – but – my world is adrift enough at the moment. I need some – someone to hold onto.

“Not teasing,” he says, so gently, and indeed, his hand has left my ear, his hand is unlacing me, holding me, touching me, and “not going to tease. Would not. Not like this, not when you are not ready for it. Love you. Can you feel how I love you, how I am combing you, how you are mine to comb forever now?” and – I do not know how – but – he is back in the rhythm, the rhythm of combing I have always known, but now – now he is moving his hand on me, and – oh – I am – I need – I cling to him – I cry out – I cry out his name, over and over, the only word I know, and I fall holding him, holding him, as he soothes me, and I am – truly – safe.

“I love you,” he says, quietly, “I love you so. Was that right?”

“Yes,” I manage to find words, “More than right. Oh Gimli – how – how can you know even that better than any?”

He laughs, and pulls me back to rest against him. Without thought, I reach to run my hands through his beard, to enjoy his hair, perhaps to comb him also, but as I touch the beads that hold his braids, he pulls back – just a little – but enough – and holds my hands still,  
“Stop it,” he says, and – oh my love – he is blushing under his beard – why? – My face must show my question, for he answers, “not here, not where any could walk, elf, have you no sense?”

I look at him, as I lie here, half – more than half – naked – my hair in waves around me, his arms holding me to him, he himself, not – fully fastened – and I think I do not understand the ways of dwarves.

I shrug,  
“It seems not,” I say, thinking, that if he does not hear the irony in his words, it is perhaps best I reserve my thoughts for another time. I would not have this joy spoiled by some foolish argument. We have wasted enough time. 

I shall wait. I am an elf, I can be patient if I need.

I will have him sing to me, comb with me, let me comb him, among trees. 

One day, I will.

“I do not understand why you are reluctant to show Aule’s creation,” I say, raising my brow, “his work is as skilled as Iluvatar’s, it seems to me, and you are happy enough to see that.” He makes one of his indescribable noises to show I am talking elven nonsense, and I continue, “Why would either of us be ashamed of the way we are created? Clothes – clothes are for formality, for practical purposes, for – decoration – that is all.” You will find my elves in Ithilien a surprise, I think, but I will not say this. Not today. I kiss his hands as he holds mine still, “No matter. But – you have not answered my question. Gimli-nin, how can you know even combing better than any other ever has?”

“I don’t think I do,” he says, “I just – love you. I daresay when you elves fall in love you do the same. Ask one.”

And then the thought recurs to me,  
“but – Gimli-nin – who did you see? None of my group – they are not combmates. At least, I do not know of any.”

He shrugs, and I can hear a smile in his voice,  
“Well, they weren’t doing it quite like that. Your – Caradhil – and – I don’t know her name. It was the talking I noticed. You – are not quite so clearly in a rhythm – but he – he reminded me of when you see people with horses, or some such – almost – what is the word – hypnotic.”

And I laugh,  
“Indeed, it is not for no reason that for many years we have had a saying in the Forest – a warning if you like – “what Caradhil thinks today, those he combs tonight will think tomorrow”. I – I think that is why he is so successful. He is very skilled,” I pause, then add, “I suppose – were he not an elf – you would have had competition for the – pleasure of all those Rohirrim. Still, I – I did not know he was combing alone with any. Are – are you sure they were – just them?” and I only hear the hurt in my voice after I finish speaking.

His grip tightens, and I realise I have woken something I should not, as he growls in my ear,  
“What matters it to you? Fucks sake, I did not stay to watch and count and check. It is his business who he combs with. Not mine. And most certainly not yours.”

I bite my lip, and remind myself that, for all appearances, my dwarf’s heart is as new to this love as mine. That our love is still young, still tender, that we have had too many misunderstandings to risk more, to be complacent.

“I did not mean that. I – I was just – it is unusual. I am yours. Completely. You know this, melethron-nin.”

He pulls me closer still, and I feel again how strong he is, I hear that growl in his voice again as he says,  
“I know. Yes. And you had better bloody know as well. My elf. Mine. Understand me? That is what you want, isn’t it?” 

He waits, and I realise he is expecting an answer, I realise I am tensing myself, as though – as though I wish to flee. Why? This – this anger – it is not at me – it – I realise suddenly – he is angry at himself, that he feels this – that he cannot but be jealous. He has said before – he knows it is unreasonable, that I am an elf, I can no more change my love than I can – grow a beard. He uses anger to hide other feelings, to hide from his fear, from his need. He has not had such lessons as I, he knows not how to accept the powerlessness of need. He has always been secure in himself, in the love he was given. Perhaps this is harder for him. He is frightened too, as I am, by this – this which we now are. His world is adrift from all he thought to be and have.

I relax into him, I wriggle against him, and I – I feel his mood change.  
“Yes,” I say, “of course. I know I am yours. I want nothing else. Ever. I swear it, you know how it is. I – oh melethron-nin, would you not be curious if it were two of your companions? Even – even hurt, that they had not told you – that – one who had been your friend so long – so very long – did not tell you how things were? But – I want nothing, no-one but you. Oh Gimli, please. You – you want me, I can feel you do, have me again? Please?”

His embrace changes, I feel the tension ebb away. One hand strokes over my face, the other – begins to wander downwards again.

“Sorry,” he says, and I can feel he is cross with himself, “I – I don’t understand what comes over me. I know you are true. I know it. It is just –“

And I kiss his hand,  
“I know,” I say, “I daresay – I daresay I will have moments. This – is very new to us. And – it will not be easy when we hear people talk, I suppose. But – today – this – this is easy.” And now, now I am licking and sucking at his fingers, and he groans into my hair, where his face is buried,  
“Love,” he says, “I do want you again. But – really? How many times today already? I would not hurt you.”

And I lean into him, wriggling once more, feeling his hardness, his breathing becoming rougher, taking his other hand and leading it down to remove my leggings,  
“I am an elf. We do not hurt easily. I love you, I want you. Always, over and over.”

And he has ceased arguing now, he is pulling my leggings, I raise my hips, and they are down, and I kick them away. I notice the love of dwarves for discretion, for decent clothing at all times has been forgotten now, although – perhaps it is that I am an elf and it is allowed? 

“Fuck, but you are beautiful,” he says, or growls, in my ear, “want. Now.” 

And I begin to lean forwards, to turn onto hands and knees, but,  
“No, like this,” he is very definite, and I feel him use one hand to adjust himself – I suppose he is still slick from earlier – and then – then he – he takes his hand from my mouth, and he is – I do not have words – touching me – preparing me – and oh but it feels good. “Going to make you come like this,” he says, but,  
“I – I cannot – I – it is too soon,” I say, blushing, and stumbling in my words at having to speak of such things, but I am afraid he will be cross with me, will blame me for – for not loving him enough if I do not say this.

He laughs, oh why does he always laugh at me, I think, I try so hard to get my words right, it is not easy for me, but – no, it is a kind laughter,  
“I know,” he is reassuring me, “I know, not like that. Just – lie back, trust me. It – it will feel as good.”

And – of course I trust him. I lie back into his arms, letting him move me, position me astride him, and then – oh – then he is in me. No hesitation, no easing in, this is sudden, hard, all the way – as he likes it – as I like it – and I – I can feel him within me – deep into me. I gasp, and he – he is so gentle – he kisses my neck and makes a questioning noise, and I – I wriggle deeper onto him, letting my head tip back, my eyes close, and oh how good this feels. Just to be like this. There is no urgency, no hurry, just – pleasure. 

At least, I am in no hurry. He seems to be, I realise, as he begins to move me, and I – I just relax into this feeling, this powerlessness, this bliss of being his, of pleasing him, of – oh – of this – this touching inside me – this – wave – growing and washing over me, again and again. He, oh how he knows me, he is no longer gentle, he is no longer kissing me, he is biting me, biting my neck – oh he is biting so hard, sucking, I can feel the bruise rising and I know, elf though I am, the mark will be there for all to see – and it – it is so good to know that, to be claimed – oh how he knows what I want – it – it hurts – but – no – not hurts – it is good – it – I have no words for how it feels – so intense – so – oh. My head is back, leaning on his shoulder, I am stretched out for him, helpless in his arms. The wave washing through me still, over and over, and my neck aches so but it is good, I hear myself begin to gasp, and then to cry out, and then – oh then – I am calling his name, my hands scrabbling to hold his thighs, for purchase, for balance, for connection, and he – he is moving me. But his mouth has left my neck and I whimper – oh where has my pride gone I wonder – I whimper at the loss, even as I realise he needs to breathe,

“I love you,” he gasps against my back, “I love you, my elf, my love, my Legolas,” and I realise he is – so close – and I – I think – I think I cannot take more – I am beyond anything – and he – he is so deep in me – I – I can feel his pleasure – and oh – I am fallen, fallen into him, forever, forever.

He holds me, both quite still, for what seems a long time, though I suppose it is not really. Gently, he finds my hands, and our fingers twine together, he kisses my neck, my hair, my shoulder – and even that – feels – so – right. So necessary to me, that I cannot imagine how I have lived all the days of my life without him.

Gradually, I feel him slip out of me, and I use the moment to turn in his lap, our hands still locked together, his arms holding me, and I rest my head against his chest.

“I love you,” I say, “and only you. You know me better than any ever has. You are all to me.”

“I know,” he answers, and I feel his regret for his folly, and I recognise it because it is a feeling I know all too well, “I know. And so are you to me,” he laughs then, “and – I told you it would be as good, didn’t I?”

I bite at him, gently, because he deserves it, and he laughs again,  
“Cross because I know how to please you? Daft sodding elf, you would be pretty sad did I not. Remember that, my love, should your eyes be tempted to stray.” 

This time my bite is less gentle,  
“It is not I, meleth-nin, who leaves a string of lovers from Erebor to – I know not where – Rohan? You keep your eyes turned on me,” and now I say what I have been thinking for some time now, “I am no gentle elf in a tale. I – I am as jealous as any dwarf. I have knives and arrows enough for any who I think – catch your eye.”

“Aye,” he says, touching my nose with his, “we are evenly matched in this too, I think. But – I do not speak of my cousin Droin as you do of friend Caradhil,” he pauses, but before I can speak, before I can say it is not Droin, nor any dwarf that I worry about, he adds, “besides, cousin Droin has no such reputation. I say again, my elf, see you keep well away from him.” He kisses my neck again, tenderly, and adds, “I am sorry about this, I suppose I should not, much as you seemed to like it. It – it is very obvious. And will be, even when you are clothed.”

I shrug,  
“It may not be elven, but – does it tell anyone anything they did not know? And – yes – I did like it – I do – I – I – do not tell me I should not – or what it means to you – unless you think I would like to know. Please. I – I am lost enough in this new world. Please, do not teach me things and then tell me I must forget them.”

He holds me close,  
“Daft sodding elf, it means nothing more than that you liked it, and I liked it, and – I suppose if one was looking for meaning – that you are mine, we are lovers, we have loved today. There is no hidden meaning to any of this.” He laughs, “Oh my sweet love, you are not lost, you have me to guide you. Always. You are mine now.”

And – I find, against all sense, this – this possessiveness – is – wonderful. Never have I felt so valued, so loved, and I settle back, to lie in his arms, among the flowers, under the trees, listening to the leaves, to the song of this land, here in this glade – while he, he – he is only fumbling for his pipe again.

Oh well.

That is how he is. My warrior, my dwarf, my love.

 

 

Oh Aule, I have never, never in all my years, have I praised you as you deserve praise. Never have I thought to thank you for the creation of your children.

Never have I wished to.

I do now.

For, oh lord of all craftsmen, it is one of your children who has made my world anew. 

His love has made all things bright, all things wonderful and beautiful, and fresh in my eyes. It is his love that makes the sounds more sweet, his love that makes me drunk with delight and heady with joy.

And if I must pay with the fear of the end of this – I care not. Never before has any loved me, cared for me as he does. And – I find I am grateful for the steadfast – once I would have said stubborn – nature of dwarves. This love, this happiness, he swears it will not end. He swears he will never stop loving me, never leave me. He swears I am his forever – and – that is all I want. Shameful it may be, but all I want is to be his. Completely. Forever.

I find – I find I owe you praise indeed for such a one. I thank you for sending him to me, for opening my eyes to see his strength, his beauty, his kindness, his loving heart. I – I thank you – I do not know if this is something I should thank one of the Valar for – but – I thank you for his worship of my body – I – I thank you that he teaches me these new joys – that he teaches me to love – as a dwarf loves – not just with voice, with heart, with soul, but – but with my body. I thank you for sending me one so skilled, so beautiful, so – oh how he takes my breath away to look at him – and he is mine. Mine to touch, to love, to kiss, oh how did I ever deserve this? I do not know, but – I offer you all the praise I have neglected in all my years.

Yavanna and Aule, I praise you, and thank you.


End file.
